


falls to climb

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angel Wings, Body Horror, Cabin Fic, Confessions, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Napping, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 05, Snowed In, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26502655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Seven months after Sam's death, Dean travels the country with Castiel at his side and nightmares at his back. Only, grief doesn't come easily to him, and Castiel is dealing with his own personal demons right alongside him, leaving them to parse through their baggage in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.And then the phone rings.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 147





	falls to climb

_The pain starts just as it always does—shrill, bone-gnawing and bright enough that screaming doesn’t alleviate the ache. Eyes drawn shut, Dean tugs at the shackles binding his wrists, finding no give. Whatever’s hurting him—and wherever it is—he can’t stop it. Can’t do anything but lie there and howl, his anguish past the point of tears, now devolved into blood._

_“All you have to is say the word,” a wicked voice reminds him, cynical. Something cuts into his leg—Dean refuses to look, refuses to see just what’s being broken or peeled off or set aflame for the fiftieth time. One day, Alastair will force him to—hopefully, that day won’t be today. “Say the word, Dean, and I’ll stop.”_

_“No,” Dean shouts and whines, choking on his own spit. Alastair holds him down and slices deeper, to the bone. Amputating him—or skinning him alive, layer by layer. Dean goes with the latter, and his gut roils, threatening to rise. “No, no, please—”_

_“One word,” Alastair says. “It brings me great pleasure to watch you suffer, Dean. Remember that every time you give up your opportunity for freedom.”_

_Bone splits—_ and Dean wakes up, a cold sweat on his skin and the room just as hot as the fires of Hell. A few feet away, Castiel sits at the motel table, flipping through a worn paperback from the book store down the street. The heater rumbles. Shaking, Dean listens to the quiet stillness of the night, and the occasional flipping of a page—

And promptly stumbles to the bathroom to hurl the entirely of last night’s dinner into the sink. The sound of his sick hitting porcelain tears his stomach apart from the inside; turning on the sink barely drowns it out, and only after the third wave does the fever subside, instead replaced by constant shivers. Castiel pads across the room in the quiet of Dean’s sobs, bare feet soft against the carpet—the second he touches Dean’s shoulder, Dean slaps him away.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasps and grabs the sink, fully expecting the worst. It doesn’t come, thankfully. In its place, guilt worms its way in, knowing that if he looks up, he’ll find Castiel, looking back at him with confusion in his eyes. “Just—give me a few minutes?”

Castiel backs off without a word. Dean listens to the white noise of running water while his nerves settle, the remnants of the dream still clinging to him. If he thinks about it—really thinks—he can still feel it. Every second of the day he isn’t moving, he remembers the fire, the knifes and the chains, all tamer than the numerous other atrocities Alastair held in store for him. Sleeping offers him no solace, even with Castiel in the room. Sometimes, Dean wishes he would just leave—but with Castiel, he can make it through the day.

If only he could survive the night.

Swishing a mouthful of water, Dean spits and cleans out the sink before shutting off the tap. Walking takes more effort than it should, and somewhere between the room going silent and turning around, he makes it to the bed, blankets still warm and drenched in sweat. On the nightstand, the clock reads 4:29 in bright red—no use in falling back asleep, then.

“Dean,” Castiel says, distant. Eyes closed, Dean shakes his head. “Are you alright?”

_No_ , he says to say, or scream, whichever comes first. He hasn’t been alright in months—years, if he’s honest with himself. Nightmares are a part of everyday life, except for these. Nightmare isn’t strong enough to describe nights like these. “I’m awake now,” he says and rubs his face. “That’s all that matters.”

The heater shuts off. By coincidence or on Castiel’s part, Dean doesn't know, but he refuses to complain. “Where are we?” Castiel asks. The bed dips at Dean’s side, Castiel’s familiar warmth close enough to touch.

“I don’t know,” Dean answers, as close to the truth as he can get. Vaguely, he knows they’re in Arizona, but as to where, he can’t remember. Somewhere with snow on the ground and mountains in the distance. “Williams?”

“Flagstaff.” Castiel draws his legs up onto the mattress. One eye half-open, Dean watches him reach out, then think better of himself. “Can I…”

Nervous, Dean nods. An uneasy fear sits in his gut in the moment before Castiel touches him. Just a hand to his shoulder—it might as well be a slap to the face. He recoils and shudders away, and Castiel pulls back, only for a moment. The longest moment of Dean’s life, and the most ashamed he’s been in years. “Sorry,” Dean mumbles and rubs his eyes. Tears sting. _Don’t be a fucking baby_. “It’s the fucking…”

“I know.”

Again, Castiel touches him. Softer this time, his palm soft atop Dean’s bare thigh, where he can see it. He should’ve gotten dressed before he fell asleep, but they had to make it to the next town with a motel, some place where he could rest after being awake for three days straight. Too many hunts—too many bruises, and not enough time to actually rest in between. Power naps can only do so much.

“How many hours did I get?” Dean asks after a while. Reluctantly, he drops his hands and looks across the room, at the white walls and paintings of the Grand Canyon and the table on the far wall; the clock on the Mr. Coffee blinks the incorrect time, and the refrigerator rumbles.

Castiel thumbs across the light hair dotting Dean’s thigh, that doing more to calm him than anything else. “Five,” he says. “You were nodding off in the car.”

Nodding, Dean bows his head. “I’m tired,” he says. Tired of driving, tired of living, tired of taking up space. “Don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.”

Castiel lifts his hand to cup Dean’s scarred shoulder. Fully awake, he doesn’t flinch; if anything, he leans into Castiel, shame heating his face. “We can stop for the day,” he offers. “You don’t have to drive every day. You can rest every now and again.”

Inhaling, Dean lets out a slow breath until his lungs ache. “I don’t know what to do.” Looking down at his feet, he wiggles his toes. The bruise on his ankle blossoms in heavy purples, and for a moment, Dean wonders if he really did break it, or at least fracture something. Walking hurts, just as much as everything else. “Sammy’s dead, Cas. He’s been dead for seven months, and I just… I don’t know what to do.” He wipes his eyes, his palm coming away wet. “What am I supposed to do now? He’s my… He’s my baby brother, and I just let him die.”

Castiel doesn’t hug him. Part of Dean hopes that he would, but instead, he offers a hand, and Dean takes it, squeezing it until Castiel’s knuckles blanch. And for the first time in seven months, Dean weeps openly, smothering his agony in his fist. “I should’ve said yes,” he sobs. “It should be me down there, not him. He didn’t deserve it.”

Castiel squeezes his hand, and doesn’t speak a word.

-+-

Denny’s is only half a mile down the road, tucked between a Speedway and a Holiday Inn that looks infinitely more comfortable than his own motel. Sitting in a corner booth, Dean looks out the window at the interstate, alternating between nodding off and trying to stomach breakfast. What would be the most appetizing thing on the planet now sits untouched save for a few bites of eggs and a half-empty coffee mug. On the other side of the table, Castiel reads the local paper, a lone cup of orange juice his only purchase, now drained.

“You think the Grand Canyon’s got any rooms open this time of year?” Dean asks, offhand. Picking up a butterknife, he cuts his stack of pancakes into fourths and stabs one, then thinks better of it, despite his complaining stomach. “I mean, it’s December. Who’s gonna go hiking in the snow?”

“Probably not as many as you’d expect,” Castiel says. Setting down his paper, he folds his hands atop the table. “Are you alright?”

Dean looks up, then bows his head. Spitefully, he shoves a bit of pancake into his mouth and tries not to gag. Anxiety, he reasons. Still doesn’t make it any better. “I’m fine,” he lies, then reconsiders. “I’m just—My head’s not on straight right now. Don’t think it’s been screwed on right for years, but it’s just now hitting me. Like… I’ve kept busy for so long, and now that there’s nothing to do—”

“You feel your life’s caught up to you,” Castiel finishes. Reluctantly, Dean nods. “You’re allowed to grieve, Dean. You’ve spent your entire life jumping from one traumatic event to the next. You’re allowed to take time to process it. It doesn’t make you weak.”

“Not saying I’m weak.” Setting his utensils aside, Dean sits back and rubs his face. Their waitress returns to fill Dean’s coffee, and Castiel asks for a to-go box and another juice. “I’ve got enough baggage to keep me in the nut house for three years. I can’t just… deal with all this at once, I’m gonna lose my damn mind. And hunting’s the only thing that’s kept me focused, and without that…” He shakes his head. His stomach growls, traitorous. “Not the point. You wanna go camping or not?”

Castiel furrows his brow. “I could fly us,” he offers. “The snow is supposed to get worse as the day goes on, and getting stranded seems less than advisable.”

“You’re telling me.” Sighing, Dean rubs his eyes. “Okay, so we’ll go stock up on food and just… hole up for a week. I don’t know. Someplace until I can get my head back on right.”

Neutrally, Castiel nods. “Then let’s go.”

-+-

Dean buys enough canned goods to survive two weeks in the wilderness and shoves them all inside of the green cooler, while three six packs, water bottles and several bags of ice sit inside a brand new one, purchased at seventy-five percent off because of a crack in the lid. Rather than letting Castiel fly them the entire way, Dean opts to drive the hour it takes to make it to the South Rim, all the while struggling to keep his eyes open amid the eerily bleak Arizona landscape.

On either side of the road, all Dean sees is mountains, surrounded by a sea of white and gray. Snow falls in light flakes for the first fifty minutes, then picks up as soon as they reach the outskirts of the canyon, becoming near-dangerous as the minutes pass. The admission fee is steeper than he would like, but it gets him into the park for as long as he wants, and he opts to park as far out as he can manage, away from other cars and park rangers that might become suspicious if he sits there too long.

“There’s this place,” Dean explains once he parks the Impala, rubbing his freezing hands together. He has a pair of gloves in the trunk, along with a weeks’ worth of freshly laundered clothes and a few blankets shoved in Sam’s old duffel; with the way the weather is turning, he’ll need them. “Down at the base of the canyon. Dad took me and Sam there when were kids, and we rode donkeys for two days down to the camp. But they’ve got cabins down there, and I’m pretty sure it’s deserted this time of year.”

Castiel touches his forehead for a brief second, probing somewhere in the recesses of Dean’s mind to find the location. “Are you sure?” he asks, worry deepening the exhaustion under his eyes.

Because Dean isn’t the only tired one here—Castiel has been in the passenger seat since the moment Sam died, without a goal or a mission, or any help offered from the other angels. Just as alone as Dean, no family to his name. They make a great pair.

“Yeah.” With a nod, Dean pops the lock on the driver’s door and steps out into the elements. All of their stuff is in the trunk—after that, Castiel can fly them wherever. “It’ll be fun, c’mon. We can nap all day and eat our weight in canned soup. I haven’t started a fire in… years.” Most of his camping experience comes from his teenage years, but he’s an old hand. Might as well shake the rust off now. “Just glad we don’t have to ride down this time.”

Castiel joins him around the back of the car, his breaths coming out as a cloud of mist. So he does breathe after all. For the longest time, Dean figured he just existed in the liminal space of their lives. Now, just his—now, Sam isn’t here, and Dean’s heart longs to see his brother, even just for five minutes. Miracles don’t happen, though, not anymore, and the angels won’t bring Sam back just because Dean wants them to. Whatever happens now, he just hopes Sam doesn’t regret it.

Dean hopes _he_ doesn’t regret it, most of all.

Popping the trunk, Dean drags the two coolers out and ties their handles together with a bit of rope, while Castiel takes the two duffels—one for clothes, and one for cookware and a portable propane grill. As far as he can tell, they have everything; even if they don’t, Dean has survived with less. “Alright.” Slamming the door shut, Dean makes sure to lock the car and stows his keys in his back pocket. “You ready?”

“Always,” Castiel says, the slightest bit smug.

Extending a hand, Dean takes it and grabs hold of the cooler handle, and the world warps for a split second, just as disorienting as it always has been. One second, he stands on asphalt, and the next, he steps foot into a mound of snow outside a row of brick-walled cabins. Surrounded by trees with the Colorado River off in the distance, snow covers the roofs and the chimney tops, and any exposed rock jutting out from beneath the awnings. From what he can tell, no one else is in the area, based on the shuttered lights and distinct lack of chimney smoke.

They’re alone—well and truly alone, in the middle of a canyon. All Dean hears is the utter silence accompanying the snow and their breaths, and the far-off babble of the river across the rocks.

Dean tries the doors to each cabin, finding most of them locked save for one. Smaller than all the rest, it features a queen bed and a small bathroom and sink and not much else. A chair in the corner and a small desk, and a fireplace in front of the bed. Other than that, it’s… quaint, all wood walls and ceilings, and absolutely frigid. “Get in, get in,” Dean urges Castiel, grabbing both coolers. He drags them inside and rushes Castiel in after him, slamming the door shut.

The faint scent of roses lingers in the air as the dust settles, from an air freshener left in the bathroom. That, and the musk of wood sitting in the corner, the stack large enough to get them through a few days, at the most. Castiel flips the light switch by the door; to Dean’s dismay, no lights turn on, but the water runs when he turns the faucet handle. “Guess we’re roughing it,” Dean says. Checking his phone, he finds no bars and only fifty percent battery. “Really roughing it.”

“It’s not so bad.” Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap. “It’s quiet.”

That it is. Beautiful as the snow is, Dean can’t stand the silence and the fear that goes along with it. Like something is lurking around the corner, waiting for him to let his guard down. But Castiel is here. If anything, Castiel can hear if something is nearby, can keep an eye out even when Dean’s at his most vulnerable.

Looking at him, Dean’s heart sinks, for reasons he can’t quite parse together. Not yet, anyway—another day.

Bags sitting beside the lone table, Dean pulls a lighter from his back pocket and starts gathering wood from the pile. “Step one, come here.” He motions for Castiel to come over, and doesn’t continue until Castiel sits beside him in front of the fireplace. “You know how to build a fire?”

“I’ve never had the chance,” Castiel says. “Are you planning on teaching me?”

“Yup.” Dean grins, enunciating the last letter. “If you’re gonna stick around, then you’re gonna learn basic survival skills. Step one, keeping warm.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump; a warm stream of air escapes from his nose, his sigh just as exhausted as Dean feels. “Do you have any kindling?”

Glancing around, Dean spots a box of fire starters beneath several pieces of wood. Not kindling, but good enough. “Got something even better.”

-+-

Dean sleeps for a solid twelve hours, uninterrupted, his dreams nothing more than faint glimpses. For the first time in years, maybe even a decade, he rests, sprawled out in bed with the fire crackling, and Castiel somewhere in the room, watching over him. As embarrassing as it is, having Castiel near brings him peace, keeping the worst of his thoughts at bay, even in the dead of night. Unconsciously, Dean reaches out for him—whether Castiel reaches back is a question never to be answered.

The sun shines through the curtains as he wakes, and the fire sputters and sparks, unattended for a few hours. He could spend the rest of the day here, covered in a thick comforter and four blankets, and ignore the rest of the world. But the longer he lies there, the more the rest of the world creeps in, and Dean gives up his futile attempt to fall back asleep. Castiel would probably let him—they have nothing to do, after all.

Leaning up on an elbow, Dean scrubs his face and turns to the window—then looks down at the body lying next to him, turned onto his side with the blankets covering all but the top of his head. At some point, Castiel gave up and crawled into bed with him. Terrifying as it is, Dean can’t help the smile that creeps over his lips. “Hey,” he whispers, patting Castiel’s shoulder. “You alive in there?”

Castiel hums a long, low noise. Lowering the blankets, he turns a blue eye to Dean, pupil still blown from the dark. “I was meditating,” he says, a lie if Dean has ever heard one. Angels aren’t supposed to sleep, but on more than one occasion, Dean has caught Castiel nodding off or full on passed out, sometimes in bed, others at a table—once, Dean found him leaning against a wall. “Are you feeling any better?”

What a question. “Mentally or physically?” Dean asks, rhetorical. Physically, he’s never better—mentally, he needs grief counseling and about three years of therapy to scratch the surface of a lifetime’s worth of trauma. “Can we not talk about me for a day? I don’t wanna be Dean Winchester, I wanna just… sit here.”

Slowly, Castiel nods and sits up. To Dean’s horror—and fascination—Castiel undressed before crawling under the covers in nothing but his underwear. And, apparently, his socks. He watches as Castiel climbs out of bed in search of his pants, and marvels at the hard lines of muscle formerly trapped in cheap fabric. Strangely, Dean wants to buy him a new suit, just to watch him try it on.

Falling back onto the mattress, Dean stares up at the vaulted ceiling, arms exposed to the rapidly cooling air in the room. Dressed in only his slacks, Castiel sits before the fireplace and gathers more wood, piling it on like Dean taught him. Within minutes, the fire roars back to life, and Dean settles into the mattress, bladder be damned.

“So who do you want to be?” Castiel asks. He wanders the cabin with socked feet, like the cold doesn’t affect him. “If you’re not Dean Winchester.”

“I’m just… me.” Dean rolls onto his side, facing the fading sunlight. “Wish I knew who the real me actually is.”

Castiel stops his wandering and joins Dean in bed, throwing the blankets over his legs. He leans against the headboard and closes his eyes, breathing in deep, then exhaling. “I think, whoever you are,” he says after a long moment, “you’re special. And everyone who’s ever met you should be lucky to be in your presence.”

Dean blinks, rolling onto his back in a huff. “Don’t go sappy on me,” he says, only half-meaning it. Sweet talk gets him everywhere—except right now. Except when it’s coming from Castiel’s mouth, and when everything Castiel says is the truth. The fact that he believes it—that he really does think Dean is worth more than the ground they stand on—sours Dean’s gut. “There’s easier ways to get in my pants, you know.”

Castiel opens his eyes, only to roll them far back enough for Dean to see white. “It’s actually possible to compliment someone without trying to ‘get in their pants.’”

Dean kicks at the sheets. “Not in my experience.”

To that, Castiel doesn’t reply. Though, he stays in bed, even after Dean worms his way out from under the covers and into the warming air of the cabin. They should do something today—walk to the river’s edge, or hike a trail, or—something. Something other than lying in bed, unwilling to face the world.

“I think about it, sometimes,” Dean says, dressed in only his briefs and standing before the fire. “What it’d be like if I… If I didn't come back. If you’d left me down there.”

The sheets rustle at Dean’s back. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds Castiel standing at the edge of the bed, eyes wide in horror. “Dean,” he says, but doesn’t step any closer. “Do you think Hell would be any better than here?”

That, Dean doesn't know the answer to. “Think about it.” Dean sits, staring directly into the flames. The same flames that once burned him alive. “I was put here for a purpose. Normally that means becoming a musician or curing cancer, but I was supposed to end the world.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I should’ve stayed down there. All I’ve done here is fuck up, and if I’d’ve just…”

A warm hand cradles Dean’s scarred shoulder. Dean jerks away on instinct, wrapping his arms around himself. “You saved lives, Dean,” Castiel says, touching Dean again. This time, Dean allows it, despite the ache in his chest. “You defied all logic and reason. You defied God’s orders, and you saved the world.”

“And Sam’s still dead,” Dean growls. “It wasn’t worth it, Cas. And it’s not fair, that I’m still breathing and he’s… Shit, he’s probably rotting in Hell because of me. Because I didn’t bite the bullet and say yes.”

Castiel squeezes him tighter. “Sam took on Lucifer to save you,” he says. Words Dean refuses to hear—words Dean can’t handle. “He did it so you could live.”

“For what?” Laughing, Dean shrugs Castiel off. “I did what I was supposed to do, man, and now I’ve got no reason to be here. Dad’s dead, Sam’s dead, Bobby won’t answer my fucking calls. What am I supposed to do now?”

Turning, Dean finds Castiel standing in front of the window, hands hanging limp at his sides. In the dim light of the room, he spots the slits lining Castiel’s shoulder blades, where if Castiel wanted, he could bare his wings. Want, being the key word. For all Dean knows, Castiel doesn’t want anything—especially him.

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers. “I wish I knew.”

-+-

Temperatures warm gradually through the day, the mid-teens moving into the twenties as the sun attempts to peak through the cloud cover. In between, snow falls, dusting the landscape in a fresh sheet of white. Sitting on a log bench by a thinner part of the river, Dean watches the flakes melt into the water, dancing gracefully downward. Even dressed in long johns and several pairs of socks and his thickest coat, he still can’t shake the cold; the tips of his ears sting, and his nose drips, no matter how many times he wipes it clean.

Winter sucks. Still preferable to the hottest days in summer, but it still sucks all the same.

Rubbing his hands together, Dean looks out across the canyon floor, at the dead trees blanketed in snow, at the banks covered in thick mounds. The faint scent of burning wood wafts through the air, a plea for him to head back inside, where warmth waits for him. Incidentally, so does Castiel—and Dean can’t bear to face him, now more than ever.

Outside is safer. Outside, Castiel can’t try to talk sense into him, or try to help him process his grief. But outside, he freezes, and every rational part of his brain tells him to seek shelter, rather than sitting in his own misery.

At some point—maybe minutes, maybe hours later—Dean hears footsteps trudging through the snow, less of a stomp and more of a glide. Castiel joins him without a word, fully dressed and donning a pair of pink mittens a size too small for him. He hands Dean a pair, woolen and scratchy, and Dean yanks them on, furiously rubbing his hands together. “You should come inside,” Castiel suggests. He keeps his distance, to Dean’s dismay. Brow pinched, Castiel watches the water flow past; snow dusts the tips of his hair, pointed in every direction. “I don’t hear anything.”

Nodding, Dean blows into his gloves. “Not a ton of rocks over here,” he says, his teeth chattering. “Snow’s not really helping things.”

“There’s probably warmer places in the country right now.” Leaning over, Castiel props his elbows atop his knees. “Though, there’s a certain beauty here.”

“Probably better in the spring,” Dean says. Vaguely, he can imagine flowers in the place of snow, and animals emerging from their nests. At the moment, a doe pokes her head out from behind a tree, eyeing him with suspicion. “I know I thought this was a great idea and all, but I gotta tell you, I’m bored out of my mind.”

“It hasn’t even been a day,” Castiel says, affronted. “I stole a pack of cards from the last gas station.”

Dean lifts a brow. “Pretty sure I didn't teach you how to be a thief,” he chuckles, and revels in Castiel’s fleeting smile. “You cheat a poker too?”

“I doubt it’d be worth playing against an angel,” Castiel says, mirthful. “Though, it might come in handy if we ever end up at a casino.”

Now there’s a thought. A surefire way to make a few million and skulk off into the wilderness—why hasn’t he ever thought of that? “I’m gonna walk the river,” Dean says after a moment, ignoring the chill seeping in through his clothes. “See if I can clear my head. You coming?”

Silently, Castiel nods and pushes up off the bench. He offers a hand, and Dean takes it, their mittens incapable of any sort of grip. “Tell me about Sam,” Castiel says. Dean’s heart sinks, just from those four words. “It helps if you talk about him as he was, not where he is now.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, low. Swallowing, he scrubs the snow from his hair and tucks his hands under his arms.

He can do this—he used to talk about Sam all the time, but now, the very thought of it brings tears to his eyes. John never taught him to grieve in a normal way. John taught him to drink and eat his feelings, and hope that it didn't come to light down the road. Now, flayed to the core and under the watchful eye of an angel, he can’t avoid it any longer.

“When we were kids,” Dean starts, trudging through the snow. “We never did all the touristy shit. It was just, next town, next town. Barely got to look out the window sometimes, since dad liked to drive at night. But sometimes if we were close to a park or something, I’d sneak out and take Sam. I mean, dad wasn’t around to stop us, and you can’t just… You can’t just shove two kids in a motel room and expect them to sit still. We weren’t dogs.

“I just… had to get him out. I’d gotten used to sitting around doing nothing, but he was a kid, man. Kids need stimulation, or he was gonna tear the place apart.” He rubs his ears, hissing. “Anyway. When I picked him up a few years ago, when we were driving, I’d stop at those roadside tourist traps. Cadillac Ranch, world’s largest peanut, just… shit to make him laugh. Shit that’d get rid of the guilt.”

“You were doing what you could,” Castiel says. Their shoulders barely brush. “You were watching out for him.”

“Yeah.” Dean shakes his head. “Still wasn’t good enough.” He stops under the shade of a tree, the snow underneath thinner, with some patches of dirt peeking through. Downstream, the river widens, and rocks line the trail. Not worth the effort going any further in this weather. Maybe another time, when the sun is high and the weather isn’t determined to kill him. “All my life, it’s been, ‘take care of your brother, Dean. Don’t let him get hurt, Dean,’ ‘cause apparently, Sam was worth more to him.”

Dean laughs, wiping his eyes. “I think I was adopted,” he says, leaning against the tree. “Dad hated me, man. Sam was his golden boy, and dad threw me to the side every chance he got. I got caught stealing food once, and he shipped me off to some… farm, thinking it’d straighten me out. Said he’d rather have me rot than stick around.” He snorts, bitter. “I was sixteen, man. I was doing what I had to for Sam, and I get punished for it? You know, I look more like my mom than him? Hell, sometimes I look at Bobby, just to see if we have the same nose.”

For a long minute, they stand in silence, only the noise of the water babbling on the rocks breaking through. “You wanted what was best for him,” Castiel whispers and steps closer. Dean looks out at the canyon walls, his eyes stinging. “You tried your hardest. You did what any child shouldn't have to do. And Sam may have resented you for that, but he loved you as well.” A hand falls on Dean’s bicep, gripping him through his coat. “You have to let him go, Dean.”

Tears fall. Dean doesn’t bother to wipe them away. “I can’t,” he mutters, breaking into a sob. And Castiel reaches for him, pulling him into his arms; Dean clings to him, burying his sobs in Castiel’s throat. He’s warm, warmer than Dean has ever been, and Dean wants to burrow into him, wants to cower in the shadow of his wings and escape the rest of the world. “I can’t, Cas. He’s—He’s my brother, I can’t.”

Castiel runs a gentle hand down Dean’s back, quelling him as he shivers from the cold and exhaustion. They can’t walk back like this. Dean can barely stand, let alone trek the few thousand feet back to their cabin. But Castiel holds him and whispers foreign words into his ear, and for the briefest of seconds, Dean swears he feels feathers caressing him. “You shouldn’t have to,” he says. “This isn’t the life you deserved, and I’m sorry for that. Given the chance, and I’d do whatever I could to not have you go through this pain.”

Dean digs his clothed nails into Castiel’s coat, a halfhearted attempt of dragging him closer. “I’m sorry,” he says. For what, he doesn’t know. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright,” Castiel shushes him. A hand in Dean’s hair, Castiel presses a kiss to his forehead, and Dean cries harder, the rest of his sanity ripped to shreds. _I don’t deserve him_ , he thinks. _I never deserved him_. “It’s alright, Dean.”

-+-

For a while, Dean rests with a wet rag across his eyes, buried under the blankets in a futile attempt to escape the cold. At the table, Castiel plays Solitaire, the occasional shuffling of cards keeping Dean awake. The fire crackles; snow continues to fall, accompanied by gusts whipping through the canyon.

“Feels like you’re coddling me,” Dean says, lifting the cloth from over his face. His eyes don’t feel swollen. Bloodshot, maybe, but not swollen. “Not a kid.”

“I never said you were.” Castiel abandons his cards and pushes his chair back, legs scraping against the hardwoods. Sitting up, Dean watches him walk over, kneeing his way onto the mattress. Knuckles to Dean’s forehead, his squints. “How’s your head?”

“Like I ate cotton.” Dean shakes him off. _Just let him touch you_. “I can take care of myself, Cas. Don’t need you… mother henning me.”

“Dean.” Sitting, Castiel crosses his feet underneath his thighs. “You cried until you vomited, and I carried you back. I think I can coddle you for five minutes.”

Great—so that actually happened. Another thing to be guilty over, hurling on Castiel’s shoes. “So I’ve had a rough year,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Pretty sure you’re not over here sitting on a bed of roses. Why’re you sticking around?”

At first, Castiel doesn’t answer. His expression falls somewhere south of disappointed, eyes losing some of their light. Leaving the bed, Castiel returns to his table and stacks the cards, taking care to flip them all in the same direction. “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he says, eventually. Dean’s stomach sours with the admission. “As soon as Michael and Lucifer were… indisposed, Raphael closed Heaven’s gates.”

Dean leans back on his hands, his heart rate spiking. “What, so you’re—cut off?”

And to his horror, Castiel nods. “I fulfilled my mission,” he says, setting the cards aside. “Or, I failed. It depends on your perspective. I died, so you could say I didn't accomplish much.” Setting the deck aside, Castiel stands before the fire. “I’ve never had a purpose, Dean. All of the other angels had their tasks, and I waited. Waited, until the day God tasked me to rescue you. I was to keep you on your predestined path, to make sure the pieces fell into place. But you were obstinate, and the angels saw that as a threat.”

Sighing, Castiel stares into the flames. “When they took me away, before Lucifer was freed, they… They attempted to ‘reset’ me. I wasn’t following orders, and they felt if they could turn my alliances against you, that I could be cured of this… affliction.”

“You mean your empathy,” Dean says. Castiel doesn’t answer him. “Cas, you knew this was wrong. You knew that no matter what the angels did, that we wouldn't say yes to them.”

“They tortured me.” Turning, Castiel looks at Dean with wet eyes, the light of the fire dying his skin in reds and oranges. “Heaven’s arsenal is absolute. I told myself that if I survived, if I made it out with my life, that I wouldn’t deviate from my mission. And I still…” His face twists, torn between agony and despair. “I failed, Dean. I failed the angels, and God, and… I failed you. Both of you. And I’m starting to wonder if it was worth it.”

_Shit_. Hopping to the floor, Dean stands at Castiel’s side. Faintly, Castiel’s hands shake, and Dean itches to hold them, to ease his fear. “You should’ve told me,” he says. “You should’ve—Hell, we could’ve done something—”

“You couldn't do anything,” Castiel cuts him off. Remorse flitters across his face. “I tried to negotiate with them, after Sam… After he left. All they saw in me was failure, and that they had no reason to visit earth any longer. As far as I know… I’m the only angel on earth. And I don’t know how long I’ll be allowed my link to Heaven, before they rip that away as well.” A sigh. “I’m alone, Dean. For the first time in my existence, I’m alone, and I… I don’t know what to do any longer.”

For the first time in months, Dean’s body overrides his brain before it can overthink it. With a shaking breath, he draws an arm around Castiel’s neck and pulls him close, wrapping the other around Castiel’s middle. He’s warm, solid in a way Dean fantasizes about sometimes, and Castiel gravitates toward him, returning the embrace with little hesitance. His cold ear presses up against Dean’s, then his nose, nestling into the curve of Dean’s neck.

“Stay here, then,” Dean says. Rubbing Castiel’s back, Dean feels him shiver. “You know you got a place with me. I’m not like them, Cas.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. “I know you’re not. You’re everything they hated in a human.” Rather than pull away like Dean expects, Castiel tightens his grip, his exhale long and pained. “They blamed you. They claimed you were the reason I defied God’s order, and in some way, that’s true. You… taught me things, things I never would’ve learned had I never laid a hand on you. But I was the one who chose to disobey. And that fault is mine alone to bear.”

Dean swallows the guilt—tries, more like it. Of all the things in the world he could do, he tempted an angel into sin and left him stranded with nowhere to go. Nowhere except the passenger seat of his car and whatever cheap motel they manage to find along the way. “This ain’t a life for you,” Dean mumbles, pulling away. He ignores how Castiel follows him, and how his warmth lingers even after he’s gone. “You should be up there, not… Not with someone like me.”

“You’re right,” Castiel says, those two words Dean’s worst fear. “I’m not like you, Dean. I could choose to live anywhere else in the world, with anybody, but I wouldn't be the same.” He lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “It wouldn't be with you.”

It might as well be a confession. One thing Dean has never been comfortable with, and Castiel admits to it so freely, without fear. Tears threaten to spill over; Dean blinks to keep them at bay. “You can’t say shit like that,” he says. “I’m no good, man. I’m the reason you’re in this mess, and all I’m gonna do is hurt you—”

“And I choose to be hurt.” The look in Castiel’s eyes could burn down cities, could sway a non-believer into prayer. Dean looks at him, and sees all the surety in the world, enough conviction that for once, he believes Castiel. Unmovable, unshakable—a lighthouse in the storm. “Can I stay?”

Shakily, Dean nods. Living the rest of his life alone is one thing. Living without Castiel, a different story entirely. “Of course,” he says. His grin falls flat, more of a frown than anything. “Until you decide you wanna fuck off to Maine or something, I’m here.”

And Castiel smiles, such a fleeting thing, so rare and beautiful that Dean can’t look away. “Good thing I don’t plan to.”

-+-

Dean sees Castiel’s wings in the dead of night. Not that he was probably meant to, but he happens upon them anyway. The quiet leaves him antsy, and not having Castiel at his side when he wakes up, even more so. Dressed in his long johns and grabbing Castiel’s coat from the hanger, Dean slips outside in the snow, only to find Castiel perched on a picnic table, shirtless and his wings in full display. Steam pours off of them, white wisps spilling from between abysmally black feathers. Occasionally, they flutter, and Dean swears he hears bells.

At some point after he nodded off for the night, the snow stopped, revealing a black sky pinpricked with thousands of stars. Above the canyon walls, they pass by, unknowing of the rest of the world below them. If Castiel weren’t here, Dean wouldn't look away. But Castiel’s existence draws him closer, the freckles in his feathers far more fascinating.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Castiel says, still looking straight on. “Did the fire die?”

“No,” Dean says. “You weren’t there.”

This time, Castiel glances over his shoulder—and Dean nearly panics. Because instead of those two familiar blue eyes staring back at him, another six join in, all placed at odd angles and watching him with scrutiny. A few others peek out from inside Castiel’s feathers, but the rest remain dormant, thankfully. _Do not be afraid_ , Dean remembers—but how is he supposed to stay sane looking at Castiel like this, when this is probably only a quarter of what he’s capable of?

Clearing his throat, Dean asks, “Where’s your halo?”

And as if on cue, a stroke of golden light sparks over the top of Castiel’s head, circling until the ends meet. A bright glow ignites and illuminates everything around them, casting the canyon floor in ephemeral white. “It’s a full moon,” he says by way of conversation. Turning his attention to the sky, a brilliant green flashes through Castiel’s feathers, mirroring an aurora that Dean has only seen once, on a cold night like this just over the Canadian border.

“You charging your batteries?” Dean joshes.

Castiel’s feathers rustle, expanding to their full breadth, and Dean struggles not to drop to his knees in awe. “It’s been years since I’ve been able to ‘let them out,’ as you’d probably say. I spent the last hour grooming.”

_Huh_.

Rounding the table, Dean straddles the seat and leans his elbows atop the wood slats. He looks up at Castiel, who looks back with four of his eight eyes; the other three stare ahead, while the one in the middle of his forehead glows an eerie blue. “They’re kinda cool,” Dean says, earning a confused squint from an eye. Reaching out, he touches a secondary, marveling at the heat and the subsequent shudder rippling through the feathers. If he had to guess, Castiel’s total wingspan is maybe twenty feet across, give or take a few inches. Enough to fly with—and destroy a room, if he decided to let them loose.

“They’re like arms,” Castiel says, a hint of annoyance in his tone. “It’s like me saying your hands are cool. They’re necessary to my survival.”

“Still cool.” Dean flashes him a grin, and all eight of Castiel’s eyes roll. “You get bored inside or something?”

Softly, Castiel hums and sits up straighter. His wings curl inward, one draped over the empty bench seat, the other wrapping around Dean’s back; warmth bleeds in, easing the chill. “Why won’t you let me touch you?” he asks, going for indifferent. Dean’s heart jumps; Castiel’s wing keeps him from running. “You pull away every time I try.”

Dean drops his hand, letting it fall onto Castiel’s knee. Lying would work. Castiel would understand if he claimed he was tainted, and Castiel was too holy. But lies only go so far, and Dean can’t stomach even trying. “I remember Hell,” he says, closing his eyes. “Sometimes I can’t… Sometimes I think I’m still there, and that the next person who grabs me is gonna cut me open, or do…”

Swinging a leg over, Dean sits with his feet on the ground, Castiel’s wing fully shrouding him. “Anna’s the only person I’ve had sex with since I got back. The way she touched me… I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I’d wake up, and it’d be him.” He shudders, covering the back of his head with his arms. “He fucked with my head. He made me believe things, and then he ripped them away and—I’m afraid that he’s still here, and this is all a dream. Like, I’m gonna wake up, and he’s gonna gut me, or—”

“You saw him die.” Gently, Castiel pries Dean’s arms away, urging him to look up. “Sam killed him. What happened to him, he can’t come back from.”

“I know.” Dean sits up, wrapping his arms around his middle. “I know, and I tell myself that, but… Thirty years, Cas. Thirty years of waking up and wondering what he planned to do to me, day after day after day. And every morning I wake up, I just—I pray, okay? I thank God that I’m not down there, because what I went through…”

“No one should have to go through that torture.” The moment Castiel touches his hair, Dean jerks away, but eventually settles. Leisurely, Castiel pets the back of his neck, teasing the short hairs with the tips of his nails. Dean melts into him, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as heat rises up his throat. No one has touched him like this in years—if ever, really. “But you’re not down there, Dean. When I raised you, you were helpless, vulnerable. You begged me to kill you, just so the pain could stop. And even if I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t’ve listened.”

“Stubborn,” Dean snorts. “Can you do me a favor?”

Skeptical, Castiel agrees. “Whatever you need.”

-+-

What Dean needs is quiet. Quiet, and a hand holding him still for as long as he can stand it. Kneeling on a pillow between Castiel’s knees, Dean rests his head on the edge of the mattress and breathes. Breathes, and concentrates on the feel of Castiel’s fingers raking through his hair. Shivers cascade down his spine every time Castiel uses his nails, and his hands tremble in his lap.

How long it’s been, he can’t recall. At some point, the sky clouded over, and snow began to pelt the already full drifts, now threatening to trap them inside. Behind him, the fire crackles and sputters, the only noise aside from Dean’s labored breaths and Castiel’s hums of content.

“Is this self-punishment?” Castiel asks by way of idle chatter. He traces his fingertip behind Dean’s ear, and Dean bites back a moan, lip between his teeth. “Or is this something you enjoy?”

“It helps,” Dean says. Groans, more like it. In reality, his knees ache and his spine begs for mercy, but Castiel’s hand on him overrides every other thought in his brain. “It’s—touch therapy, or whatever.”

“Wouldn't that help if you were on the bed?” Castiel pulls away, and Dean chases him, a whine escaping his throat. _Pathetic_. “Come up.”

Lead in his gut, Dean obeys. Castiel scoots up toward the headboard and lifts the covers, while Dean rounds the bed and crawls beneath. There, trapped beneath the mounds of blankets, Castiel wraps an arm around Dean’s middle and pulls him close, their chests flush and legs dovetailed together. Dean holds his breath and waits—waits for the world to end, for reality to sever and for the knife to plunge between his eyes. Nothing happens. The fire crackles, Castiel pulls a pillow beneath their heads, and Dean finally breathes.

_I’m alive_ , he thinks. _I’m actually alive_.

An arm tucked under Castiel’s, Dean presses his palm between Castiel’s bare shoulder blades, where thirty minutes before, wings sprouted. As human as he looks, Dean still can’t bear to touch him, knowing what hides beneath the skin. Angels are holy wrath—angels destroyed his life, yet one holds him so tenderly, like the world might as well exist in Dean himself.

“Is that better?” Castiel asks. Silent, Dean nods. “You should sleep.”

“Kinda wired,” Dean admits. He burrows his head under Castiel’s chin, fighting back the anxiety festering in his chest. “We can’t stay here forever.”

Sighing, Castiel smooths his fingers down the back of Dean’s shirt. “It’s a nice idea, but we’re running out of food.”

“Didn’t think you’d wanna try red beans and rice,” Dean chuckles. “And like it.”

Castiel hides his smile in Dean’s hair. “I can fly us back to the car whenever you want. I doubt we’ll be able to drive back into town any time soon.”

“Just get us to the nearest place that isn’t currently under four feet of snow,” Dean huffs. “Seriously, never seen this much snow in my life. Sure you didn't fly us to Canada?”

“I think we’re technically warmer here,” Castiel mumbles, then breaks into a yawn. _Since when is he tired_? “Sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Morning. For once, Dean doesn’t want the morning to come. “You gonna still be here when I wake up? Or are you gonna be playing old maid by yourself?”

“I’ll be here,” Castiel says. Simple as that, and everything Dean has ever wanted. “Now, sleep.”

“Bossy.” Settling into the mattress, Dean brings his arm underneath the pillow. “Night, Cas.”

Castiel sighs, and kisses Dean’s hair again. “Goodnight, Dean.”

-+-

In his sleep, Castiel is beautiful.

Somehow, even more so than in the daylight, where he’s all hard angles and righteous fury. Here, he looks almost human, lips parted, hair astray and matted to his face, drool staining the pillow. Dean has seen himself asleep, courtesy of Sam’s occasional blackmail, and he looks nowhere near as content as Castiel does unconscious. Thankfully, none of Castiel’s freakishly misplaced eyes watch him, and his wings don't attempt to smother him. Not that he wouldn’t mind, but four blankets are more than enough. Adding a wing would just be heightening his fear of sleep paralysis.

Dean watches him as light begins to fade its way into the cabin, highlighting his cheeks and the grays in his hair. Idly, Dean traces each and every one, all the while ready to pull away if Castiel wakes. But he doesn’t move. At most, Castiel breathes and turns his face into the pillow, avoiding the burgeoning light. A thought flits through Dean’s brain, one he shouldn't entertain—touching Castiel is one thing, but this might as well be blasphemy.

_But I trust him_ , Dean thinks. Palming Castiel’s cheek, he presses his lips to Castiel’s, the chastest kiss he’s ever given. Only, the moment he pulls away, all of Castiel’s eyes open, and Dean nearly jumps out of bed in a panic. Castiel holds him in place, six of his eyes closing and disappearing into his skin. “You kissed me,” he says, and Dean nods like an entire idiot. “Did you mean it?”

_I fucked up_ , Dean thinks—screams at himself, actually. _He’s gonna slam dunk me, and I’m gonna—_ “Yeah,” he blurts before he can finish that sentence. “Looked like you needed it.”

Castiel doesn’t reply. Doesn’t do anything, really, other than clasp the back of Dean’s head and pull him in for another. And Dean grapples with him in return, shoving a knee between Castiel’s in a vain effort to get him even closer than they already are. Chest to chest, a strange tangle of limbs. Somehow, Castiel ends up on his back, and Dean straddles his hips, the sheets pooling around their waists.

Despite the terror and the burning shame, kissing Castiel is easy. Too easy, really, in the way Castiel opens to him, his lips sweet and lush. He rakes through Dean’s hair, and Dean shudders, moaning into his kiss. Despite the growing interest in his briefs, Dean doesn’t attempt to take it any further, and Castiel doesn’t press, probably too shocked to do anything more than hold on. He palms Dean’s chest, where his heart pounds a jagged rhythm against his ribs; Dean pulls away to gasp, not the reaction he was hoping for.

Though, it does make Castiel smile. “You’re excited,” he says, his grin nearly infectious. “How long have you wanted to kiss me?”

“I—“ Dean starts, then hides his face. Longer than he cares to admit, but life hasn’t exactly treated him kindly in the last few years, and getting Castiel alone for more than two seconds almost takes a court order. But now there’s time—all the time in the world. “Do we gotta talk about this now?”

Humming, Castiel pecks the corner of Dean’s lips. “Not if you don’t want to,” he says, then lowers his voice. “You don’t have to say it, Dean.”

_But I want to_. Desperately, Dean wants to say those three words, but he can’t. Finding love as a hunter is one thing, but having that affection reciprocated? Palming Castiel’s cheek, Dean kisses him, long and painfully slow, memorizing the taste of Castiel’s lips and how they feel against his own. Because some day, he won’t have this. Someday, Castiel will leave, and all Dean will have are the memories and the heartache, and only himself to blame.

“You’re way outta my league,” Dean says, masking the pain with a laugh. “Sure there’s not some other angel you could chase after?”

Castiel noses his way into another kiss, only pulling away when Dean returns it. “There isn’t anyone else,” he murmurs. The truth breaks Dean’s heart, that an angel could fall for him, in every sense of the word. “There’s only you. From the beginning, from the moment I laid eyes on you in Hell, I knew you were the one. And nothing could ever change my mind.”

“Shit.” Forehead to Castiel’s, Dean lets out a breath from the bottom of his lungs. “This is a mistake, Cas.”

“I’ve made bigger.” Pressing his thumb to Dean’s lip, Dean kisses it on instinct, scarlet highlighting his cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to do it.”

Dean sputters a laugh. “Swear I don’t have my head up my ass all the time.”

“Only sometimes.” With mirth, Castiel leaves a final kiss on his lips and drops his hands. “Did you want to leave today?”

Dean rolls onto the other half of the bed, taking most of the covers with him. “Probably should,” he says, rubbing his face. “Haven’t checked my phone in three days. Not like anyone’s tried to call me. Probably that telemarketer that’s been on my ass for years.”

“It might be nice to hear a familiar voice,” Castiel adds.

“Just what I wanna hear, someone trying to sell me life insurance.” Dean shakes his head. “Where d’you wanna go?”

Castiel looks to the ceiling, his brow pinched. “Somewhere warmer,” he decides. “I’d like to see the sun.”

“Shit, I just wanna feel my toes.” Reaching over, Dean pats Castiel’s stomach, then grabs his hand before he can talk himself out of it. Only, Castiel laces their fingers together, and Dean’s heart jumps into his throat, strangling him. “Beach then?”

Castiel nods. “I’d like that. I don't think I’ve ever been.”

Dean squeezes his hand. “Then I know a spot.”

-+-

The second Dean turns his phone on, the screen erupts in a flurry of unread messages and missed calls. Hand on the trunk lid, Dean makes out twenty-seven texts with fifteen voicemails underneath. No pictures, from what he can tell, but nothing else makes sense.

Hunters don’t call this phone. This is his personal phone, and only Bobby and Sam know the number, and a handful of grieving mothers who insisted on keeping his number in case someone else got maimed in town. Or, that was the reason Dean always chose to believe. Only, Dean never saved their names into his phone—all of the messages read Sam, all the actual words inside can only be described as a frantic attempt at typing, only to come out in a long string of jumbled letters.

Looking over his shoulder, Castiel takes the phone and flips through the messages. “Don’t you have his phone?” he asks, a brow lifted.

“He had it in his pocket,” Dean says, voice foreign to his ears. “He—I still have his wallet.”

This can’t be right—this can’t be real, but apparently it is. He takes the device back and double checks the number, then flips through the voicemails. Even with the speakerphone on, he can’t hear much out of any of them, other than distorted background noise and a faint tapping that reminds Dean of things he’d rather not remember. All of the messages span the last few days, some bunched together, others hours apart.

The most recent, five minutes ago.

“It could be interference,” Castiel says, just as wary as Dean. “Lucifer might’ve taken it.”

Or it could be Sam. “I need a—I need a minute,” he says, sinking to the asphalt. Snow seeps into the seat of his jeans; for once, he can’t be bothered to care. None of it makes sense. Dean still had his phone on him when the hounds dragged him down, but they left his body behind—Sam fell straight into the pit, taking Lucifer and Michael and everything else with him. It shouldn't be possible.

_But it is_.

“Days,” Dean says, eyes on the screen. “He’s been calling for days, and I—”

“You didn't know.” Castiel squats in front of him, his coattails draped over a pile of slush. “I didn't know. Hell doesn’t get cell reception, Dean, it’s on another plane—”

The phone rings—Dean answers it before Sam’s name even has a chance to appear. “Sammy,” he rasps. Pressing the speaker button, he holds the phone between him and Castiel, only to hear static and the faint sound of water. Stagnant, flowing over rocks, not the steady crash of a waterfall or a flooded stream. Lowlands, maybe. “Sammy, you there?”

Nothing. Nothing, save for a voice, faint and audible only if Dean presses the speaker to his ear. “Swamp,” it coughs—Sam, Dean prays—and lets out a long, hollow groan.

“Sammy, listen to me.” Dean grabs for Castiel’s arm, his breath shaking. And Castiel grabs him in return, squeezing his fingers tight. “Sammy, what do you see?”

“Trees,” Sam manages. A pause, then, “Gator.”

The line drops. Dean nearly throws the phone into the nearest car in blind panic. “Gators,” he says, repeating the word until it loses meaning. “Florida. What kinda swamps are in—Florida? Georgia? Shit, he’s gonna get eaten, and I don’t know where—”

“Dean.” Dropping Dean’s hand, Castiel palms Dean’s shoulders, holding him steady. “Breathe. Breathe and think.”

“Can’t breathe.” Sucking in air, Dean grabs Castiel’s wrists and sinks his nails in. Breathing doesn’t work, and only Castiel keeps him from passing out into the snow. A miracle, really—without him, and Dean might be unconscious in a puddle. “Cas, he’s—I can’t—”

“In,” Castiel orders. Inhaling, he waits for Dean to follow his direction, and together, they exhale. Castiel, steady—Dean, shuddering and near tears. “Out. It’s okay—”

“No it’s not.” Shouting has never helped anything, but he does ease the tension building in his chest. His voice echoes off the trees; Castiel blinks, but doesn’t speak. “Sam’s dead, Cas. He’s been dead for months, and some… demon or something’s got his phone, and they’re tormenting me—”

“But what if it’s him?”

Dean bites his tongue. What if it is Sam? What if Sam clawed his way up from the depths of Hell and walked out of a swamp? Stranger things have happened, but one thing stands out—how did his phone survive? “I don’t know,” he says. A shiver works its way across his skin, not just from the cold. “I really, really don't know this time. What if it isn’t him? What if it’s still—” He stops, swallowing down bile. “What if Lucifer’s still in him? We can’t go through this again, Cas, I’m not killing him—”

“Let’s say it really is Sam.” Castiel moves to cup Dean’s nape, thumbs pressed to the center of Dean’s throat. “Let’s say Sam did claw his way up from Hell. The longer we sit here, the more he suffers without our help.”

Help, right. Help Sam—Get Sam away from the alligators. “Florida’s full of swamps, though,” he reasons. Tilting his head back, his skull thumps against the bumper. “Do you know how many we’d have to go to just to find him?”

“Not everything is as difficult as you think it is.” With a grunt, Castiel stands and helps Dean to his feet. Dean ignores the wet patch soaking through his jeans and the ass print he left in the snow. Just what he needs, to change his pants in the middle of a snowstorm. “What’s the largest swamp in Florida?”

“The Everglades,” Dean answers. “It can’t be that easy. I mean, it’s never been that easy.”

Castiel exhales, his breath billowing through his nose. “There’s only one way to find out.”

He touches the trunk lid and Dean’s shoulder—and Dean’s world devolves to pure light.

-+-

It turns out, for the first time in Dean’s life, that it is that easy.

The Impala comes to rest in the visitor’s parking lot of the Everglades National Park—Dean, however, stays aloft in Castiel’s arms, and Castiel scours the landscape looking for anything remotely human shaped. What he even sees, Dean can’t tell past the blur of cypress trees and murky water, but he touches down somewhere in the middle, far enough away from civilization that if he were alone, Dean would die of starvation before he ever made it back to the car.

And there, draped over a rotted Cypress and half-submerged in stagnant water, lies Sam Winchester, with moss in his hair and gouges marring his back, and the most bloodshot eyes Dean has ever seen. Purely out of fear and temperature shock, Dean stands there and gawks at him for probably too long, Sam’s body lithe and covered in more blood than skin. Splinters jut from where his fingernails once sat, while his fingers sit at odd angles. Perched on a flat portion of the tree, his phone sits, blinking on and off. Shorted out—at least it worked for when it counted.

“Sam,” Dean whispers after what feels like an eternity. Slogging through the muck, he takes Sam by the shoulder—gently, barely a press of his fingers. Exhausted, Sam doesn’t move; he looks up at Dean through blood-matted hair, and a rush of tears spill from his eyes, tinged in red. “Cas, he’s alive—”

Castiel rushes over in a flurry of feathers; his wings drag through the water, casting a shadow over them when he lifts one to block out the sun. Kneeling at Sam’s side, he places a hand over a scarred portion of his back, and for a moment, Dean expects to see the white flash of Grace and Sam’s skin knitting together, just like he was before Stull.

But nothing. Just the silence of the swamp and the low rumble of an alligator somewhere in the vicinity. “It’s not working,” Dean says, shaking. Pushing Sam’s hair side, he watches Sam blink, slow and pained. “Cas, it’s not—”

“I know.” His wings ripple, every feather poised for flight. He has a plan—Dean already hates it. “Where’s the closest town?”

Dean rifles through the map in his brain for one second too long. “Homestead, it’s twenty minutes from my car,” he says in haste. “Cas, he’s gonna—Is he gonna—”

“He’s not dying.” And in one motion, Castiel swoops Sam up into his arms, all six-foot-four of him soaked in swamp water and blood and God knows what else. Only, Castiel picks up about three-quarters of him, the space below his knees no longer in sight. Dean’s stomach lurches, rising into his throat without warning; all that comes up is bile, thankfully not on anyone’s shoes. “Dean, I need you to focus—”

“And I’m puking.” Spitting, Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He can’t look at Sam like this, half-dead and dying in Castiel’s arms. “Jesus Christ, he’s—Cas, we gotta go.”

Castiel’s face hardens as he gathers Sam closer to his chest. “I want you to grab my shoulder,” he says, a direct order. “Don’t let go, do you hear me?”

Dean nods, all he can do to keep from fainting. They don’t have time. Castiel is their only shot at keeping Sam alive, and Dean is dead weight. He should let Castiel go—let Castiel fly Sam to the nearest hospital and leave him there, but Dean can barely stand, let alone go where Castiel wants him to. Running on adrenaline, Dean grabs Castiel’s coat and grabs ahold of the strap—

And Castiel flies.

-+-

Sometime close to midnight—maybe two in the morning—Dean finally emerges from his stupor on a couch in the waiting room of Homestead Hospital, smelling of swamp water and melted snow and blood. Unimaginable amounts of blood, none of it his own. How he got here, he can’t remember beyond Castiel’s occasional instructions and the hand on his shoulder, the wings wrapped around him, out of sight of the nurses and doctors and everyone else they came in contact with.

That wing is still there, hours later, draped around his side and sprawled across his lap. Dean feels it rather than sees it, and lays his hand over his thigh, where a blanket of feathers shields him. “Cas,” he says. “You still with me?”

Half-leaning on Dean’s shoulder, Castiel nods. “I’m weak,” he mumbles, hiding his face in Dean’s jacket. If they weren’t in public and the night nurse at the desk wasn't glaring at them for existing, Dean would wrap an arm around him. “I didn't realize how bad it was until I picked him up, and I… I can’t heal what’s already lost, Dean. I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” Rubbing an eye, Dean looks down at Castiel’s first clenched between them. “Look, I’m not pissed at you, okay? You did what you could, and you… You saved him. And I’m never gonna not be thankful for that. But just ‘cause you couldn't magically put his legs back on doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

Castiel sighs, his knuckles blanching. “I should be able to do more. I’m an angel, Dean, I can perform miracles. But after all he’s been through, I can’t even…”

Without thinking, Dean covers Castiel’s hand, waiting for him to unclench. “All I care about right now is that he’s safe, and you’re here.” He laces their fingers together, out of sight of the night nurse. “You did good, Cas.”

A breath, long and low. “Not good enough,” Castiel mutters. “I couldn't save him.”

Since he was a child, Dean has always hated hospitals. Hated the smell of them, hated the death and despair that lingered around every corner. In the daylight, families crowded in, anxiously awaiting results, and strangers wandered through the doors with every kind of ailment imaginable. And every time they wind up here, one of them is on death’s doorstep. This time, Sam has the angel of death looming over him, and Dean can only sit back and watch.

Seven months, and Sam crawled out of Hell for nothing. If he dies, then at least Dean can say he tried. Hopefully, God will take mercy on him, sanctify him. “He’s still a kid,” Dean says, watery. “He shouldn't have to go through this bullshit because of me. I should’ve left him back in California. I could’ve dealt with dad and lived my life, and he could… Shit, he was gonna be a lawyer.”

“He could still be,” Castiel says. “But you can’t blame yourself for this. Your entire life is predicated on acting in the moment and dealing with the consequences later. You did what you thought was the right thing to do.”

“Yeah.” Dean sniffles. “Yeah, but all that's got us is heartache. I watched him die, Cas. I sold my soul for him, I died for him, and I can’t… I don’t know what to do if he dies again. I got nothing left, man. And if he… I just pray that he’s at peace, ‘cause I sure as hell haven’t given it to him.”

“Mr. Winchester?” a woman calls. Through the tears in his eyes, Dean looks up to see a woman walking toward them, dressed in blood-stained scrubs with her black hair tied up in a bun. He waves, only because Castiel refuses to stand, and wipes his eyes. Her name tag reads Dr. Patel. “Your Sam Winchester’s brother, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks, then clears his throat. “How’s—Is he gonna make it?”

He expects her to frown. Expects a shake of the head and solemn condolences, but instead, she offers a smile. “He’ll be just fine. He’s lost a lot of blood, but we’re trying to stabilize him enough to treat the infection. Can you tell me what happened to him?”

“Alligator,” Castiel lies through the exhaustion. “We were camping, and we woke up and couldn’t find him.”

Dr. Patel winces. “Wish I hadn’t heard that one before. If you’re not from this area, then we’ll have to set you up with a physical therapy program in your home state. He’s going to need prostheses, but he’ll be able to walk if he puts in the effort. Where are you boys from?”

_Kansas_ , Dean almost says. But Kansas hasn’t been his home since he was a child, and Baby is practically family. “South Dakota,” he says instead. They can always stay with Bobby, if he can get the old man to answer his phone. “Close to Sioux Falls.”

“You’re a long way from home.” She pulls a notepad and a pen from her pocket, scribbling down something on a crumpled sheet of paper. “I have a friend at the university hospital up there. Call her when you get a chance,” she stops to rip off the sheet, handing it to Dean, “and start the process of getting him set up. You can’t see him tonight, but first thing in the morning, swing by. We should have him stable by then.”

“Thanks.” Dean wrenches his hand free from Castiel’s to wipe his face. Slowly, the pressure of Castiel’s wing fades away, no longer pinning Dean to his seat. Standing, Dean shakes Dr. Patel’s hand. Her smile, genuine as it is, tears at his heart.

She leaves with a parting goodbye, disappearing down a hallway. Castiel stands and places a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Involuntarily, Dean jumps. “There’s a motel down the road,” he tells Dean, sliding his fingers down Dean’s arm. “We need to sleep.”

We—Not just Dean, but him included. Whatever that means. _Everything_ , Dean thinks— _It means everything_. “Yeah,” he says, eventually. Looking down at his hands, Dean clenches his fists; blood flakes off onto the floor, along with dried mud and God knows what else he touched in the swamp. “Yeah, we should… I’ll drive.”

-+-

The only place open after midnight is the Garden Inn on the other side of town, across the street from a strip mall. Palm trees line the streets, lit with Christmas lights and festive decorations. Any other year, and Dean would laugh at how cheesy they look, glowing like beacons in the middle of the road.

Now, he can’t stop crying.

Not even a noiseless sob, but a full breakdown, kneeling between the double beds and gathered in Castiel’s arms. His shirt hangs half-off of one arm, pants hastily undone. _Couldn’t even get my fucking clothes off first_ , he berates himself, clawing at Castiel’s coat. _Can’t fucking do anything right_. “I did this,” he sobs, half-choked. “I left him out there, and he’s gonna die again.”

Castiel doesn’t try to console him beyond just holding him, Gently, he strokes his fingers down Dean’s bare spine, and Dean wails into his shoulder, like the child he never was. The child he never got to be. It was a long time coming, anyway. John has been dead for years, and he still can’t escape the shadow of his words, lingering over everything he’s ever done. _You failed him. You killed him. His blood is on your hands, boy_.

“We should’ve stayed on the road,” he croaks. “I could’ve—Three days, he’d called for three days and I didn't answer.”

“You didn’t know it was him,” Castiel says after a long, pained moment. “It could’ve been Lucifer. He could’ve been using Sam as bait, trying to lure us out.”

“But he didn't have to cut his fucking legs off.” Dean beats his fist into Castiel’s shoulder blade. “He didn’t—he didn't have to go that far. He could’ve just let Sam go, not—not that. He’s a fucking kid, Cas, he—I’ve put him through so much, he doesn’t deserve that.”

“No,” Castiel says. He holds Dean closer, whispering into his ear. “But you’re doing your damnedest to give him more.”

Dean sniffles, in desperate need of a tissue. Or a towel. “Don’t say that.”

But Castiel plows on. “Neither of you deserve the hand you were dealt, but you’re still alive. Sam fought tooth and nail to escape Hell. You defied God, all because you wanted something more out of life than fighting His battles.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us.” Pulling away, Dean refuses to lift his head. Castiel forces him, a finger to his chin. He knows what Castiel sees there, decades’ worth of pain and agony, all spilling from his eyes and nose, painting his face every shade of red. He’s a mess—but Castiel isn’t any better off, based on the wetness streaking his cheeks. _Angels don’t cry_ , Dean thinks. _You made him cry_. “Cas…”

“Your lives are worth more than you think,” Castiel says. Unwavering as ever, despite the sadness in his eyes. “I wish you’d try to see that.”

Another thing to feel guilty over. “I’m sorry,” Dean rasps. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Castiel shakes his head. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He palms Dean’s cheek, and Dean falls into him, lip between his teeth. “You did everything you could, and even if it feels like it wasn't enough, it was. And Sam knows this, Dean. Sam knows you tried, like you’ve always tried. He doesn’t hate you for that.”

“He should.” Weakly, Dean wraps his fingers around Castiel’s wrist, where his heart beats a tired rhythm. “He should… he should despise me. I ruined his life. I killed him, Cas, I let him die, and now he’s… He can’t walk, all because of me. I’m not gonna win the award for best brother like that.”

“No, but you’d get honorable mention,” Castiel says—and damn him, but Dean laughs. “We’ll talk to him in the morning. He called you, Dean. That should mean more than anything.”

“Yeah.” Leaning into Castiel’s space again, Castiel wraps his arms around him, his body unbearably warm in the heat of the room. _I’m gonna get the flu like this_. “Still wish it wasn't like this.”

Lips press to Dean’s temple, soft and every comfort that Dean has ever needed. “I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

-+-

Dean wakes just as the sun begins to lift over the horizon, dying the room in pale yellows through the slit in the curtains. Cool air filters through the room, a welcome reprieve to the humidity waiting outside the door; better than that cabin, though. At least here, he can feel his fingers and toes.

“I don’t think I should stay,” Castiel says before Dean can even process the idea of speaking. Squinting, he finds Castiel sitting on the edge of the bed, naked except for his boxers, his back facing Dean.

Reaching out, Dean touches the small of Castiel’s back, his fingers tingling with sleep. “Cas, what’re you…”

“You’re right.” Castiel’s shoulders slump. “I should’ve ignored my task when I was told to raise you. Because the pain you’ve experienced, I’ve put you through most of it.” A sigh. “All I’ve done is hurt you, Dean. And I’m bound to do it again.”

Dean sits up—or, tries, given the pins and needles in his right arm—and scoots closer, pressing up against Castiel’s back. “Don’t chicken out on me now,” he says in all seriousness. “Look, I… I hate this. I hate this as much as the next guy, but you can’t leave. You just… You might as well see it through, if we’re gonna go through this together.”

At his sides, Castiel fists the sheets, then smooths them out. “You had qualms about my raising of you,” he says, slow. “You would’ve rather spent the rest of your life in Hell, to the betterment of your brother. But the longer I stay with you, the more I’m inflicting the same kind of—”

“Whoa, no.” Numbly, he takes Castiel by the shoulder, forcing Castiel to face him. “You don’t get to say shit like that, okay? What we have, whatever the fuck’s gone between us, it’s not like Hell. Sure, it’s felt like it sometimes, but it’s not. Because you’re not hurting me.” Castiel turns his head away; Dean takes him by the chin, locking their gazes. “You can’t hurt me, Cas. And you can’t… You can’t leave me. Not when shit gets hard, not when the fight ends. You either stick around, or you go, and I…”

He drops his hand, only to cover Castiel’s in the process. His heart pounds, lodged in his throat. “I just… really like you, man. Probably more than I’ve ever liked anyone, and I don’t… I don’t wanna lose you. Not after all the shit we’ve been through.”

“I love you too,” Castiel says, as quiet as the air. Blinking, Dean watches him turn away, a sudden sadness souring his expression. “And I don’t want to hurt you. You deserve more than me. You should find someone who makes you happy, Dean. Someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved, and I can’t—”

“Shut up.” Dean kisses him before he can finish that statement—and Castiel kisses him in return, just as rough, almost like he hates the concept. “Just—shut up. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rather than reply, Castiel shoves Dean onto the mattress and crawls over top of him, jamming a knee between his thighs. Not that Dean minds in the slightest, especially when Castiel pins him down, crowding him into the bedding. Dean revels in his kiss, ignoring their morning breath and the ache in his spine, and moans when Castiel ruts into him. Sudden, with force—apparently, angels wake up just as hard as humans, and Dean won’t complain, not when Castiel gets a hand between them to pull their cocks free.

“Feel like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Dean says between kisses. He works a hand between them, filling the gaps between Castiel’s fingers. Another day, and he’ll marvel about the heft of Castiel’s cock and how slick it feels against his own, blood-warm yet silken. He lifts his hips up into Castiel’s, and Castiel thrusts back, his breath a hot brand against Dean’s lips. “Cas, please…”

“When I said that I loved you, I meant it,” Castiel growls. Pulling back, he latches onto Dean’s neck and sucks, a dark mark blooming under the pressure. Dean moans and quickens his pace, heat rushing to his cock. Precome seeps through the gaps in his fingers, both his own and Castiel’s slicking his grip. “I don’t want to leave, but you make it too tempting.”

“Should be the opposite,” Dean grunts. Arm around Castiel’s back, Dean scrapes his nails across the slit of Castiel’s wing—and Castiel groans, open mouthed and eyes rolled back. Smug, he does it again, feeling Castiel shiver. “Got you, angel…”

“Dean,” Castiel pants. With his free hand, he takes Dean by the hair and tugs, and Dean moans, squeezing their hands tighter. His cock jumps, desperate for touch, for Castiel’s hand, anything it can get. And Castiel catches on, hastening the pace; Dean clings to him as hard as he can, a hand in Castiel’s hair while they jerk their cocks in tandem. “Dean, Dean—”

“Yeah,” Dean gasps. “Yeah, Cas, let it happen, c’mon…”

Eyes pinched shut, Dean rides the crest, toes curled into the bedding and Castiel’s skin under his nails. Castiel topples mere seconds after, mouth gone slack around the juncture of Dean’s throat as he spills into their fists. Head thrown back, Dean lets his orgasm wash over in him a way he hasn’t in a long, long while, the tight clench of his stomach, his limbs locked in place until the tension snaps all at once; coupled with Castiel’s quiet pants into his ear and the hand gripping his hair by the root, Dean has never felt more adored in his life. All from a handjob— _the holiest handjob_.

Dean doesn’t bother to hide his laughter, especially not when Castiel joins in. Freeing his hand, he slaps the space between Castiel’s shoulder blades, rubbing their come into one of his wing slits. Violently, Castiel shivers, his teeth scraping Dean’s throat. “That good, huh?”

“Better,” Castiel rumbles. Leaning up on his elbows, he looks down at Dean, a solemn look in his eyes; Dean wants to kiss it off him, just to forget how they ended up here. Gently, Castiel swipes his thumb under Dean’s eye, then kisses his temple, the faint tingling of Grace spilling into his skin. “We should shower before we go.”

Right—Sam is waiting for them, awake or not. Whatever joy he had before dies the moment Castiel lets him go. Dean grabs him before he can climb off the bed, fingers around Castiel’s wrist. “Don’t leave. Please, just… I don’t know what to do without you, man. I know you feel like this is all your fault, but it’s not. You don’t get to tell me I’m not at fault when you sit there and think the same damn thing.”

Castiel’s eyelids sag, his gaze distant. “We’re alike then, you and I. Someone’s to blame, but if it’s not us, then it’s the other.”

Sighing, Dean bows his head. “Stay. Please. If there’s one thing I want right now, it’s this. You, me, and Sam, the three amigos. I lost him one, Cas, I can’t—I don’t wanna lose you too.”

Castiel softens, arm limp in Dean’s grasp. “I don’t want to be your sword.”

“You’re not.” Worming his way off the bed, Dean stands before him, his hands to Castiel’s nape. “Sure, having an angel for a best friend is cool and all, but you’re more than that.” Leaning in, he presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips; Castiel’s hands come up to caress his neck, pulling him in for a second, a third. “Stay.”

Opening his eyes, Castiel nods. In the dark, Dean can’t look away from his eyes and the sadness lingering there, a sadness that won’t ever leave. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, Dean.”

-+-

Dean spends the last twenty bucks in Sam’s wallet on a cheesy Get Well Soon balloon and bear combo from the gift shop downstairs, the latter of which he tucks under his arm as they wander the halls of Homestead Hospital. Castiel holds the balloon by the ribbon, looking entirely out of place, and Dean would laugh if it were for anyone else. But supposedly, according to the bright-faced nurse at the front desk, Sam is awake and responding to medication, and he’s been moved to a room out of the ICU.

The best-case scenario, apparently. Dean will call it a miracle until the day he dies.

This early in the morning, no one passes by on their walk to the third floor, nor does Dean hear anyone crying or screaming from inside any of the occupied rooms. Nine in the morning, and the world might as well be asleep.

Sam’s room sits at the end of a long hall, past an office and a set of chairs, and a locked break room with a vending machine inside. Objectively, the door doesn’t scare him—but the idea of what lies behind it terrifies him to his core. Vividly, he remembers what Sam looked like when Castiel pulled him from the swamp. But that was yesterday, and today, Sam is better, allegedly. For all he knows, Sam croaked between the last time a nurse visited him and now.

A warm hand surrounds Dean’s between them, fingertips pressed into his palm. “He’s asleep,” Castiel says, blue eyes turned to him. “Don’t barge in screaming his name.”

Dean sticks his tongue out at him. “Come on, I’m not that much of a dick.” Elbowing Castiel, he grins as wide as he can; Castiel rolls his eyes. Sure, he’s done it in the past, but only when he knew Sam wasn’t gravely injured. Still, he heeds Castiel’s warning and opens the door as quietly as he possibly can. No creaks, no annoying popping from the hinges—a silent glide, joined by Dean dropping the bear the second he catches sight of the woman standing at the end of the bed.

Hands on the footboard, a pair of deep brown eyes glare in Dean’s direction, her lips a hard line on her face. Leaning up, she crosses her leather-clad arms over her chest. Her hair reminds him of Cassie, tight curls that cascade over her shoulders, framing her face. She’s beautiful, really—if only she didn't look like she wants to murder them.

From the bed, Sam turns to look at Dean and Castiel, a light flitting across his bloodshot eyes. “You spent my money, didn't you?” he asks, voice as rough as a bed of nails. Dean’s throat closes, all of it suddenly too much. “Dean—”

“Yeah.” Picking up the bear, he sets it on the small table at Sam’s bedside. Hugging Sam takes some maneuvering with the number of IVs shoved into his arms and hands, but he manages it, and Sam clings to him just as fiercely, despite the wounds to his hands and—everything else. “It’s good to see you, man,” Dean says, his voice wobbling. “Really good.”

“Didn’t think I’d be here,” Sam says in return. He pats Dean’s back, his fingers slipping. “You’ve still got Cas?”

Easing his hold, Dean looks over his shoulder to find Castiel tying the balloon around the bear’s hand. “I never left,” Castiel says, offering Sam a smile. Sam pulls him into a hug anyway, and Dean almost laughs at how stiff Castiel goes in his hold.

Cleaned up, Sam looks moderately better, aside from the gouges in his arms and palms and the lone scratch down the side of his neck; the rest of it, he can’t see beyond the blankets spread over his lap. He’s alive, though—that, more than anything, is all that counts.

“Now that we’ve gotten our pleasantries out of the way,” the woman says, her eyes locked on Dean, “we need to talk. Reaper to human.”

Fear roils in Dean’s gut. Reaper— _He’s gonna die after all_? “You’re—”

“The name’s Billie,” Billie says, neutral. “And I’m not here to reap your brother, Dean. In fact, I’m here to make him an offer.”

Dean makes to step forward—Castiel holds him back, hand to Dean’s shoulder.

“Listen to her,” Sam says. Lying back in bed, he pulls the blankets up to cover his stomach with a wince. “It’s not what you think, I swear.”

“Then what is it?” Dean asks, trying to keep his voice calm. “Because he just got back, and I’m not letting him—”

“Relax.” Billie points a black-painted nail at him. “I’m not in the business of reaping the living. Samuel, though, just fought tooth and nail to escape Hell, a place no human has ever managed to emerge from without divine assistance.” She nods in Castiel’s direction. “I know your story, Dean. Just as well as I know everyone else on this planet, but you two are the exception. What I’m offering Sam is an opportunity that you never got when Castiel raised you.”

Dean blinks, then looks at Sam, an unbridled jealousy building in his chest. But Sam deserves it—out of the two of them, this is something Sam doesn’t need to remember. “You’re gonna take his memories.”

“Not all of them,” Billie says. “Just of what happened after he fell into the cage. And in exchange, Sam will be in my debt.”

“Now wait—”

“No.” Sam taps Dean’s wrist. “No, Dean, just…” Lip between his teeth, Sam closes his eyes to the sun pouring through the window. “I know what happened to you, okay? Not all of it, but… The things that happened down there, and when I escaped, I just… I get sick every time I think about it. The only thing keeping me from wigging out is the morphine in that bag.” He thumbs to the IV rack over his shoulder. “I don’t wanna live like that. I can’t live like that, with that in my head. It’s bad enough that I can’t even feel my toes—”

“You’re lucky that’s all he took.” Billie rounds the bed to stand by the spot where Sam’s feet once were and lifts the sheets. “Once I’m done here, Castiel can heal you. But he can’t give you back what’s been taken.”

Emotion wells in Sam’s eyes as he turns to Castiel. “You can’t…?

Head bowed, Castiel nods. “I can only heal the damage that’s been done. You’ll be able to walk again, but it’ll take time.”

“But what’s the catch?” Hands shoved in his jean pockets, Dean squares his jaw. “You’ll take his memories, but what, he’s gonna be your lap dog?”

Billie lifts a brow. “Death seems to like the three of you. That’s the only reason he chose me, because I’m the only reaper that can do my job without favoritism. No, what Death wants is a favor.” She places her hands on her hips, mirth in her eyes. “When the time comes, we’ll call on Sam to act as an intermediary. You see, we don’t have any sort of signed truce saying that Heaven and Hell won’t fight again. It could be days from now, or years. Centuries, even, long after you’re both dead and rotting. But he’ll be the one to act on our behalf.

“There are too many people on this earth to reap. Personally, I don’t care.” Billie shrugs. “But I’d rather not have to decimate the planet solely because cats and dogs can’t get along.”

_You’re telling me_. “Where were you before, then?” Dean asks, earning a glare from Billie. “With all the shit that went on, you were what, waiting?”

“I was doing my job,” Billie says, bordering on cruel. “And my job is to send souls to their final destination. I know when and how every human being on this planet dies. No one ever told us what to do when they escape.” She turns her eyes on Sam. “How did you do it?”

To that, Sam heaves a sigh. “I killed Lucifer,” he says—blasé, plain as day. Lucifer is dead. Dean takes a step back, held up solely by Castiel’s hand. _Is the room spinning_? “He had a sword on him, that he liked to… I got it off him and I ran. I broke the lock and I headed for the exit, but he got there first. He must’ve… He must’ve got the jump on me, because after that, all I remember is fire, and… the smell, like the world was burning. And I stabbed him in the skull with it, and it’s like the lights went out.”

Shuddering, Sam pulls the blanket tighter, like he used to do when they were kids. Trapped in motel rooms with no way to escape, no food in the cupboards and barely any cash to their name. Dean kept him fed—Dean protected him, and this is the one thing he couldn’t save Sam from. “I tried calling you,” Sam says to Dean, hiding his fingers. “I still had my phone, but between the water and the…”

“Stop.” Gripping Sam’s bedrail, Dean hangs his head. “Just—you don't gotta tell me. I know, man, and I would’ve given anything not to remember half the shit that happened.” Castiel touches his shoulder, and for the first time, Dean doesn’t flinch. “Whatever she wants, do it. We’ll think about it later—”

“Dean.” Sam squeezes Dean’s hand. “I already told her yes. I was just waiting for you.”

“And you’ve kept me waiting.” Billie takes two steps to stand at Sam’s side, hovering her hand over Sam’s eyes. “You remember the terms of our deal, Sam. You agree to this, and there’s no backing out.”

“I know,” Sam sighs. “I know.”

A grin spreads across Billie’s lips, all before a blinding light pours from her hand into Sam’s skin. Sam gasps at the initial shock, and Dean squeezes his hand, feeling him tremble. She lets up seconds later, afterward wiping her hand on her pants. “Welcome back, Samuel.”

“Thanks?” Blinking up at her, he turns to Dean, then Castiel. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Billie confirms. “And you, Castiel.” Heading for the door, she catches Castiel by the shoulder. “I have to ask, how do you feel? Heaven cut you off. You’re one of the Watchers now, abandoned by your own family.”

Castiel’s hand slips, falling to Dean’s elbow. Out of sight of Billie, Dean touches his fingertips in consolation. “I’m fine,” he says, and Dean believes him. “I’m where I want to be.”

At their back, Billie hums. “I’ll be seeing you then,” she says, and disappears before the door has a chance to click shut.

-+-

Rather than put Sam through the strain of a three day trip in the backseat, Castiel flies them, car and all, right to Singer Salvage, dropping the Impala as close to the front door as he can get. For a while, Dean sits in the driver’s seat, the frigid South Dakota winter seeping in through the closed windows, the engine popping from the sudden temperature change. If one of them gets the flu after all of this, Dean places his bets on himself.

But it feels like an ending. A journey long fraught with pain, but drawing to a close. In the back, Sam sits up and looks out the windows, tension in his brow. “Feel like I just woke up from a coma,” he says, thumping his head against the glass. “Last time I looked outside, it was spring.”

“Dean and I went camping a few days ago,” Castiel says. Leaning against the bench, he props his head up in the pillow of his arms. “It didn’t stop snowing for days.”

Days—might as well have been a lifetime, to Dean. “I know I went to Hell,” Sam says after a moment, rubbing his eyes. “And I don’t wanna know how I got out, but I… I’m really glad.” With a laugh, Sam shakes his head. “I’m glad I’m alive, man.”

“Yeah.” Dean turns in his seat and reaches over, ruffling Sam’s rat nest he calls hair. One of the nurses cut it shorter, previously shoulder-length locks now barely touching his nape. Another few washes, and he might stop smelling like a swamp. Sam doesn’t try to bat him away, his heart probably not in it. “Really glad to see you too. Wouldn't believe the shit that’s gone on without you.”

Quiet, Sam chuckles. “Can we just pretend this was all a dream? I just… I’m really overdue for a nap. Like, three weeks, nonstop.”

“I’m down with that.” Dean cracks a grin, or tries to.

Looking at Sam physically hurts, but not for the reason he expects. Genuine happiness has always been hard to come by, but seeing Sam here, alive and breathing and mostly whole, leaves him winded and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like Billie will come out of the woodworks and yank Sam away again, and Dean will be left to mourn him for however long it takes him to return.

Living with Sam again will take some adjustment—and helping him to learn to walk, as well, as soon as they start visiting the hospital in town. Bobby has connections, and Dean has Dr. Patel’s note in his pocket. But they’ll make it work. They have a roof over their head, and they’re alive.

For once, Dean will take whatever joy he has and run with it.

A screen door clatters. From the porch, Bobby stands with his arms crossed, a scowl on his face. Cranking the window down, Dean waves him over, but Bobby refuses to budge. “I’ve been calling you for weeks,” Dean shouts. “Where’ve you been?”

“Fishing,” Bobby answers, finally taking the time to step off the porch. “Been gone for a month. Just got back yesterday. I should be asking you the same.” Hands to the window jamb, he looks between Dean and Castiel, then glances at the backseat—and the color drains from his face. “Boy, what did you get into now?”

“It’s a miracle,” Sam says, his arms outstretched. “I came back.”

“I can see that.” Bobby cocks a brow. “No demon deals?”

“None,” Dean says, the absolute truth. “No strings attached this time. There’s just the deal where we gotta buy him some new legs, but—”

“Legs?” Bobby almost laughs—almost. “I thought you said no strings attached.”

“There’s two strings,” Castiel chimes in. “One of them is manageable. The other, we’ll discuss later.”

“Got a lot to fill you in on.” Patting the steering wheel, Dean looks up at Bobby and smiles. “You still got your wheelchair?”

-+-

At midnight, Dean walks into the junkyard with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and slippers on his feet. Not exactly the best to stave off the cold, but for the moment, it’s real, and it’s brisk, and he can breathe again. “He’ll be fine, right?” Dean asks, drawing the blanket tighter. “He’s gonna be… We’re gonna be good, right?”

From behind, Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s waist. “He’ll be fine,” he says, muffled into Dean’s shoulder. “Miracles do happen, Dean. Sometimes, you have to take them at face value.”

Dean covers Castiel’s hands with his own, fighting back a shiver. “Still don't believe it,” he whispers, his breath nothing but steam. “We can deal with the therapists, and his appointments, but… It just doesn’t feel real. I mean, days ago we were in Arizona, and now we’re… We’re home. The gang’s back together.’ His voice cracks, and his shoulders shake. “Why does it hurt?”

Castiel spins Dean around and into his arms, tucking Dean’s face into the curve of his neck. And Dean holds onto him, smothering his sobs in the woolen fabric of one of Bobby’s moth-eaten sweaters. He smells like mothballs. Something about it breaks Dean down even further, his sobs loud and riddled with snot. “You’re allowed to feel,” Castiel soothes. “You lost the one person you’ve known for your entire life, and now he’s back. You’re allowed to grieve.”

He knows—objectively, Dean knows, but it doesn't make him feel any better for it. “I just—” He tugs Castiel’s sweater. “I don’t know what to do. About him, about us, about… Good things don’t happen to me, Cas. I’m the last person God or anyone should care about, and I’m still… What did I do to deserve any of this?”

“I hate to say that God works in mysterious ways,” Castiel says, to Dean’s resulting laugh, “but sometimes, good things happen to good people. You just have to be willing to accept that.”

_But I can’t_. Sniffling, Dean pulls away to wipe his face. “Don’t deserve you,” he says. “Don't deserve any of it, but… really don’t deserve you. I mean, since when do angels make mistakes like that?”

Castiel kisses his cheek, then the corner of his lips; Dean turns into him, sighing as they fit together, like Castiel was meant to be his all along. “I’ve made plenty of mistakes.” Breaking the kiss, Castiel rests their foreheads together. “But you aren’t one of them.”

Dean shivers, hands shaking as he takes Castiel’s hands. “Not used to… this,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck up, Cas. Somewhere down the line, I’m gonna tear us apart, and I can’t… Just tell me you won’t leave. If one thing’s been constant lately, it’s been you.”

Again, Castiel kisses him, this time with fervor. “I don’t plan on it,” he says, absolute. “I’m here, for as long as you’ll have me. And even after, if you’ll let me.”

“Yeah.” With a sigh, Dean noses his way back into Castiel’s neck. “Always, Cas. Always.”

“Good.” Castiel fits his fingers over Dean’s shoulder, over where his brand still sits, like yesterday, Castiel raised him, leaving a permanent mark on Dean’s soul. And for all Dean knows, he did. _He really, really did_. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“Okay.” And Dean lets Castiel lead him, back into the warmth of Bobby’s home—and to the rest of their lives. _Together_ , Dean thinks. _I’m finally home_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone and welcome to my feels-about-Dean spiral! I didn't intend for this to end up as long as it did and it kinda went in its own direction, but I really enjoyed writing it, especially given that it's been so hot here recently. But now I'm posting this in the middle of an oncoming hurricane so let's get all the extremes covered at once! I really need to get back to my book, but these boys are currently attacking my brain and making me sad before the finale. Maybe if I ignore it, it'll never happen.
> 
> I hope y'all are doing well! As always, I'm on the tweeter whining about my life.
> 
> Title is from the R.E.M. song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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